My Immortal
by bamftastik
Summary: Quick songfic drabble to go with the Evanesence song of the same name. The archdemon has been defeated and the Hero of Ferelden is to be presented to the court at Denerim.


The hall stretched wide and hollow, empty above the heads of the assembled crowd. They milled about, their excitement clear, but their whispers were muted, their faces indistinguishable, the garish colors of their clothing stinging her eyes. Standing alone on the dais, Kylyn Aeducan raised her gaze to the light streaming from the windows above, watched the brilliant motes of dust hanging on the heavy air. She wondered how far they had traveled, what they had once been. But it did not matter now.

As Anora ascended the steps and took her place before the throne, Kylyn stilled herself. Her eyes snapped forward, her shoulders stiffening, but something in her refused to rise, the heaviness sinking deeper as she hid a sigh. She had practiced this in her father's court, but the faces that looked to her now were strange and human. Her stomach had not fluttered so in years.

The air stirred, a figure appearing at her side. She did not turn to look up at him, could not bring herself to see that sad smile, the brilliant specks of light dancing in his golden hair. Instead her gaze turned to the crowd, sweeping past them to the new statue waiting half-finished at the far end of the hall. Already the features beneath the scaffolding were taking on a familiar shape.

Kylyn's breath caught at the sight of it, one hand moving instinctively toward her chest. Her flesh had knitted quick enough but the healers had been able to do nothing for the spells, fawning over her with a mix of curiosity and pity. Anora was speaking now but the words were distant, unimportant. Kylyn let her eyes fall closed.

Alistair crouched before her, brushing a wet and clinging strand of hair from her eyes, seeming not to notice as her lips twisted in pain. This was memory, nothing more. She would not let him see her cry. But his arms were around her now, back in the close darkness of their tent, sharing a silent shudder for the screams that had woken them both.

No. She opened her eyes but he was beside her still, the glare from the windows settling round his shoulders. His movement was almost imperceptible, his arm brushing against hers, his hand reaching, searching. Biting her lip, Kylyn twined her fingers through his.

She could not keep the memories away now. Alistair in battle, the glare of his shield, the strange and shimmering wave seeming to engulf him as it dispelled the darkspawn's magics. Alistair in this very room, denying his kingship even as he swelled with the pride of it. A vision of herself, starting awake in a strange and empty bed - one here in the palace - quivering for the echo of the taint. It called to her now in sweet and familiar tones, more unsettling than the growl of any archdemon.

Kylyn clutched tighter, her knuckles aching as though they would burst, but Alistair did not stir. Slowly, she raised her eyes to his.

Again she saw him smiling down at her, slipping off his glove to wipe a tear from her cheek. She had been yelling, pleading, but still that smile had held, his boyish features settling into something calm and certain. With a desperate lunge, she had grabbed his bare hand and they had lingered there for a long moment, afraid to breathe. Again she felt it; again she saw his fingers slip through hers as he turned toward the archdemon.

Looking down, Kylyn saw the tiles of the great hall blur, the light seeming to brighten as the motes trapped within it swirled. And such a light there had been, engulfing him entire, knocking her to her knees. She could feel herself sinking again, her grip finding only air, the hand that had enveloped hers seeming to break apart and stream between her fingers. With a cry, Kylyn pulled her hand away. It spread up his arm, the stray breeze taking every piece that she had loved, even that smile no more than so many brilliant, scattering motes. Only memory, only dust. Alistair was gone.

She whirled, the tears welling behind her eyes, the cry swelling in her chest. Not here. She couldn't... not here. She pushed through the crowd, caring nothing for their stares, for Anora gaping at her back. The statue loomed beside the broad and ornamented doors, but she threw them aside, not daring to look up, to see him watching. Corridors twisted and blurred as she raced from that place, her legs pumping until they burned. The tears came freely now, streaming behind her as she ran, passing more statues, more tapestries, all that remained of half-forgotten kings. The wail broke over her and it was only by the stinging in her throat that she knew it to be her own.

She had found her way outside, the gardens stirring unbidden memories of a quiet night, some small peace stolen on the eve of war. Here they had walked together, here they had... But it loomed ahead, this place that she had dreaded, her steps slowing in the coolness of the building's shadow.

The door was already ajar, swinging inward beneath her shaking fingers. She paused there, drawing an unsteady breath as the calm washed over her, surprising and sudden and complete. Here he waited for her, laying between these close and shadowed walls. Willing herself forward, Kylyn stepped into the tomb. A thin veil had been draped across the length of him, but still she could see the face beneath it, a face that she had watched so often in sleep. He looked no different now. Sagging against the slab, she buried her face against Alistair's chest.


End file.
